


Bad Habits

by smangtheterrible



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Sex, Couch Sex, Dry Humping, Established Relationship, Frustrated Sex, Frustrated Sherlock, Lap Sex, M/M, One Shot, Orgasm Control, PWP, Rough Kissing, Touch-Starved, a lot of whining, arm pinning, more like, mush, sherlock annoying john, sherlock sulking, thigh fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:12:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smangtheterrible/pseuds/smangtheterrible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is stuck on a case, John is the unfortunate recipient of his frustrations. </p><p>It's like prodding a horse with a hot poker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Habits

The case had been dead in the water five days, which while not unprecedented was fairly uncommon, or so John thought. He'd never say it aloud as Sherlock was already wound tighter than a picketed mule with a wasp under its saddle, but John truly believed Sherlock had reached a dead end, and it was driving them both insane.

 

John's eyes swiveled as he followed Sherlock's pacing track around the flat over the edge of the morning paper. The man was agitated, staring at the crime collage tacked to the wall as if his eyes could bore a hole into it, and had been muttering to himself for the last forty five minutes. Before that, he had been going over the case file for the thousandth time, both hands plunged into his hair. He hadn't eaten anything.

 

As John absently went over in his mind the confrontation that had left Sherlock clutching a bleeding arm to his chest in broad daylight and could have very narrowly been much worse, he wished their perpetrator had actually been their suspect, and not set them back to square one by showing his hand. At least then they'd have something to go on.

Without warning Sherlock sat down onto the couch, which coincidentally was currently occupied by John, who found his paper suddenly displaced; wilting as he could no longer hold it with both hands. He sat down sideways onto his lap purposefully, his eyes still glued to the wall. Before John could exclaim in surprise at the sudden procurement of Sherlock's bony arse into his lap, one of his long hands went to the shallow wound Larson had managed to give him at their most recent altercation, absently picking at the scab in what had become a familiar gesture as of late. John slapped his hand quickly, for the millionth time.

 

“Stop. Picking!”

 

When Sherlock's hand darted away and resumed its bad habit, John grabbed his wrist and twisted it back. Sherlock went limp and let out a petulant whine, surprising John again as he smoothly turned round so that he was suddenly straddling John's lap, yanking his wrist out of John's grasp, his knees on either side of John on the couch. He buried his face into John's neck, his arms bent and pinned against their chests. John could feel his breath against his neck as Sherlock huffed irritatedly. He picked up the paper again and reopened it, holding it open over Sherlock's body, who was no longer moving.

 

“If you keep picking at it, its going to scar, I keep telling you.”

 

“Don't care,” came the muffled reply from the vicinity of his neck.

 

“You may see the body as mere transport, but I quite like your skin when its _heal-”_

 

Sherlock took this opportunity to wriggle his arms out and stick them up the back of John's shirt, laying cold fingers against the bare skin of his back, causing him to drop the paper in surprise. John yelped again.

 

“ _Jesus,_ Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock's appendages were always frightfully cold, and since the very start of their intimate relationship, had taken to doing this when John least expected it. He should have known better. Whereas before Sherlock's sulks usually drove John out of the flat, now if anything they were even worse as Sherlock dumped the full weight of his irritations directly onto John, and he knew exactly how to push John's buttons and drive him up the wall as well.

 

Sherlock shifted, wriggling restlessly, and John grabbed hold of his upper arm, grimacing. They grappled for a moment, before John grew irritated. His paper was now out of reach where he had dropped it, and he shifted his hand to the small of Sherlock's back as he leaned forward and tried to reach for it with a foot. Sherlock pulled one leg off the couch and quickly kicked it further away. John breathed out evenly through his nose.

 

“Could you pass me the paper, please?” he asked with due politeness, as if they were simply sitting down for breakfast, although he knew what the response would be. Or at least he thought he did. Sherlock responded by biting him on the chest, just below his collar bone, through his shirt, and not all together gently either.

 

“Oi!”

 

All that writhing on his lap had already made him uncomfortably aware of his groin's interests in the proceeding, but this unexpectedly sent a jolt of heat straight south. He knew that Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, and this just made him all the more frustrated. He snatched again for Sherlock's flailing arms but his lapfull parried, grabbing his hand and interlacing their fingers.

 

Surprised again for a moment, he hesitated, and Sherlock used this moment to push his arms back until they were pinned against the back of the couch on either side of John's head. John felt the muscles of his shoulders strain, before he froze as Sherlock sank back down onto his lap, still straddling him.

 

Sherlock began to cant his hips deliciously slowly, rubbing against him, taking one or two second pauses between. John looked down at their point of contact, his throat suddenly dry. He was achingly hard all of a sudden. He couldn't see Sherlock's face, as the tall git was up above him, but he could sense him hovering. He could picture him closing his eyes, tipping his head back, and he suddenly desperately wanted to watch him.

 

With a growl he pushed back, and he felt Sherlock let him, let him take control, and John twisted his body, using his strength to take them both down parallel along the couch, Sherlock underneath him. John used one hand to cradle the back of his head as they came down quickly; although the couch was soft, John had made this mistake a week and a half before and nearly given him a concussion as he had allowed John to manhandle him down onto their bed. They had miscalculated, and Sherlock had met with the edge of the side table instead of a pillow in a moment of passion. John didn't take any chances any more.

 

“You're so fucking irritating Sherlock,” he said, but the game was up and he was smiling now, trying not to laugh. Sherlock, however, was not, a little crease had appeared on his forehead, even as his pale skin became flushed with colour. If anything, he looked more pissed off, his hardened erection in his lounge pants the only clue John had to his true feelings. Suddenly John wanted to make him pay, make him suffer, draw out his arousal, knowing that in the end the reward on Sherlock's part would be worth it.

 

John turned the tables and pinned Sherlock's arms above him with one hand, his other reaching down to trace the outline of his penis through the two layers of cotton.

 

“Is that what you're doing now? Attacking me when you're frustrated? Being an annoying prick because you can't solve a case, so you come over here and rub yourself over me like an animal?”

 

“Shut up!” Sherlock hissed venomously at him. He hated John talking to him during sex unless it was important communication, and dirty talk was right out. John knew this, and to be honest he had never been comfortable with the idea of saying those sorts of things, as they always came off sounding rather awkward and porny, but now in his frustration, and knowing it was pissing Sherlock off, he let loose. Sherlock wriggled his hips, struggling to gain more friction, but John was not giving it to him. John's amusement only irritated him further, and he kicked out, unseating John momentarily, but it was enough to get an arm free to rub at his bulge with the heel of his hand.

 

“No-!”

 

John swiped at him, and Sherlock surged up, attacking his mouth roughly with his own. John was still straddling him, his legs going over Sherlock's upper thighs, but they were both upright now. John felt Sherlock's long legs wrap vice-like around his waist, hooking his ankles to keep him where he wanted him. The kissing was not elegant, and Sherlock kept biting him, but there was no doubt they were passionate as they delved in. Sherlock had both hands gripping John's shirt, and John had both his hands in Sherlock's hair, until Sherlock scrabbled to take John's trousers down. He yanked his belt out aggressively and dropped it to the floor without breaking contact, and struggled to undo the fly, but his hands were shaking a bit, and John after a moments struggle placed his hands over Sherlock's own to help, breaking off from the warm heat of his mouth to look down so he could see what he was doing. Sherlock lay back again to watch him, palming himself again, and John quickly yanked his trousers down to his knees before he came after Sherlock again, kissing his way back into his mouth while he he simultaneously pulled Sherlock's wrists away again.

 

“None of that,” he breathed against his lips, and Sherlock growled, tried to flip them over, and failed. They got part way before the narrowness of the couch and John's bracing arms prevented them, and they went back the way they came, so that John found him on top once more. John snorted, and then they both froze as the sound of ripping met their ears. John's shirt had torn where it was stretched against his neck, and before he could do anything, Sherlock shot him a sly look before reaching up and ripping the cheap cotton clean in two the rest of the way. It tore in a jagged line down his chest at an angle, until John found himself left with two halves clinging to him.

“Was that really necessary?” he gasped exasperatingly, as Sherlock immediately shed him of its remains and attacked his neck, his chest, as far down as he could reach, leaving burning hot kisses in his wake so that John's whole body felt alive, stimulated.

“If you reciprocate, I'll kill you,” he said, and he surged back to cover his mouth again with his own, one hand gripping the back of his neck possessively. John followed him back down and they moved together, forgetting that he was supposed to be depriving Sherlock of any sensation concerning his lower half. He rutted up against him shamelessly, one hand moving down to tug at Sherlock's pants, and Sherlock lifted his bum accordingly so John could slide them down. He then lifted his own hips so he could do the same, and at last they were both free, but John had one last cruel idea. When he came back down, instead of making contact with Sherlock he moved to the right, rubbing himself against Sherlock's thigh instead. It took a second for Sherlock to realise what he was doing, until he stopped moving to watch John. John was careful to avoid Sherlock's cock as he moved, and after a moment Sherlock began moving his hips again in little thrusts, in need of more sensation. His hands were clenching and unclenching the cushions as he watched John with a wrecked expression. A helpless whine worked its way out of his throat.

“Johnnn...” He reached down again with his own hand, and John snatched him once again halfway there, pinning his wandering arm down to the cushion. Sherlock's other arm came up to rub absently at his forehead as he closed his eyes. He was really trembling now, from lack of sensation or arousal or both John did not know. John could feel his own orgasm building, but it wasn't enough. He pulled away in a second and got off the couch before Sherlock even realised what was happening.

“Wait,” he growled, and wobbled his way into the bedroom. He was back in a heartbeat, kneeling on the sofa, opening the bottle of lube he had retrieved, his cock aching at the sudden loss of sensation. He could only imagine how Sherlock was feeling, and the broken look on his face was enough to make him feel almost bad about this depravity. His face was flush, and sweat was making his curls stick to his forehead. He was looking at John with a combination of need and loathing that made John want to put him out of his misery. But that would come later.

“Turn over for me, love.”

Sherlock glared at him before doing so. John slicked himself quickly, and set the lube bottle on the floor. Then he gently took Sherlock's hips and pressed, guiding him.

“Down...”

Sherlock, now utterly confused, lowered himself until he was flat on his stomach. The bare expanse of his back rising to the swell of his arse was breathtakingly beautiful, as always. John mouthed at the two dimples at the base of his spine, making Sherlock shiver for a moment, before he began to press his cock between Sherlock's legs. Slowly, he began fucking him between his thighs.

“You're not going to...to...”

“No.”

John knew this was the most satisfying way to get off while still denying the sensation he craved, and that for Sherlock, rubbing his prick where it was pinned against the couch was far from the desired outcome that he wanted.

“Okay?”

“John...I need- need-”

“I know what you need.”

For John, the feeling was perfect; encased by his thighs, he had hot slick sensation all around, and it wasn't long before he felt his orgasm build and break through him. He couldn't lay there long, however, as Sherlock was prodding at him.

“John..John..please...” he whimpered. John tenderly turned him back over to see Sherlock was a writhing mess, cock bobbing, stomach clenching as he squirmed, fighting for any contact and failing.

“What do you want?” John asked breathlessly.

“Just..t-touch me..please...”

So John took him in hand with the one that was still wet with lube, and Sherlock shuddered, tipping his head back as far as it would go until all John could see was the underside of his chin.

“Ohhhhhhh...” he moaned, his hand scrabbling and coming to rest on his shoulder. John took it and interlaced their fingers, and Sherlock gripped him, hard. John thought to use his mouth before he realised how close he was, and he stroked him the way Sherlock liked. Sherlock stretched himself out as long as he would go, his stomach muscles tightening as his orgasm approached.

 

He was as taut as a bowstring, little shaky huffs of breath coming out as the waves of heat in his groin grew and condensed into a pin prick achingly quickly. Sherlock felt lost, like he was at the bottom of a long hot tunnel that was overwhelming. He knew distantly he was crying out repetitively just from the touch of John's hand, but the sensation after being deprived for so long felt like the best thing he had ever felt. The wave of sensation he could feel coming was so delicious he felt like he was melting right through the couch, like every cell in his body was on fire.

Sherlock's eyes were screwed up tightly as he began to come, his fingers digging into John's hand.

“Fuuu-ck,” he gasped in a wrecked voice. There was an aftershock that left him limp. As he finished, he lay there, his chest heaving, heart rate going a mile a minute.

 

“Ohhhhh....”

 

After let out a low hum of satisfaction, rolling his head up to gaze at John, lids at half mast.

“You utter bastard,” he said, his voice down somewhere around his navel.

 

“Okay?” John asked.

 

“I hate you. That was...”

 

“What?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and groaned.

 

“You really enjoyed that didn't you?”

 

Sherlock groaned again.

 

“Didn't you?!” John stood up and kicked his trousers the rest of the way off, before attempting to move towards the bathroom. Sherlock grabbed hold of his arm.

 

“No, don't!”

 

“I'm just going to get some tissues.”

 

Sherlock relinquished his grasp grumpily, and John returned with a roll of toilet paper. He gently wiped Sherlock's stomach off, who appeared to still be relishing his post orgasmic haze, before doing the same to himself.

 

“Budge up.”

 

Sherlock scooted over with his eyes still closed. John crammed himself back onto the narrow thing, before Sherlock extricated himself and turned over, draping himself over John.

 

“Fuck this case,” Sherlock muttered into John's neck.

 

“I like seeing you frustrated every once in a while. It's quite satisfying.”

 

“I might have to hide the paper more often.”

 

“You only inflict pain and suffering onto yourself, you masochist.”

 

“Mm. 'To each his sufferings; all are men, condemned alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, the unfeeling for his own. Yet why should they know their fate, since sorrow never comes too late, and happiness too swiftly flies?' If all suffering were as good as this, I should like to suffer to the end of days.”

 

“I hate this couch, I always stick to it. And I'm not going to ask how you can recite poetry when you find any knowledge of literature pointless.”

 

“Is not the chemistry of words profound?”

 

“Profound and useless, according to you.”

 

“Some things stick.”

 

“You never cease to surprise me.”

 

“I intend to keep it that way.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever get paranoid you consume so much content that it buries itself in your subconscious and when you go to write something you're sure its been done before? Well with these two that's almost certainly the case, but it won't stop niggling me.


End file.
